by Tom Stacey
“I don’t think so, child. Not just yet.” In truth Riella had no idea if Callistan would allow the girl on his horse again but she dared not approach him to ask. Even staring at the back of his head made her feel uncomfortable in ways she could not explain.
A cool wind blew down the beach from the north and passed through the crowd like a spectre passing through a wall. It stirred scarves and cloaks and unbound hair and Riella’s long locks flew into angry motion as a slither of golden snakes. She made to hug her cloak about her tighter but felt some resistance. She looked down to see the girl, Mirril, leaning into her to shield herself from the bite of the breeze. Riella opened her cloak and swept Mirril’s frail form inside and then closed it again, wrapping her in as much warmth as her own body could muster. “You need a good meal, Mirril. Then you won’t feel the cold at all.”
“What about you?” asked Mirril.
Riella laughed. “Maybe you can share some with me.”
“We are here!” announced Droswain with a flourish. He cupped his hands to his mouth to call out above the heads of the crowd. “Grundis! Grundis, clear the way, it’s your favourite landlegger!”
There came a shout and a scuffle, and two squat men in threadbare tunics of brown cloth that might have once been crimson red beat a path through the assembly before them. With the way open, a very small man — even smaller than Droswain — came scuttling forward with all the enthusiasm of the condemned ascending to the headsman’s block.
“Droswain. You’ve returned.” The man’s voice was flat and unburdened by emotion. He sounded bored.
“Yes, I have, and I’ve brought guests.”
The man known as Grundis ran a laborious glance over the group, pausing when he met Callistan’s eyes, before turning slowly back to Droswain. “We’ve no room. You have space for four. No more.” If Grundis had caught any whiff of the musicality of his speech, no evidence of it showed on his face. Instead, he turned and walked back down the aisle held open by his men.
Droswain turned to Beccorban and spread his hands. “What did I say?” His tone was apologetic but Riella could hear the sneer scratching to come out from behind his teeth. “No coin, no passage. Come, young Loster.” He placed stubby-fingered hands on Loster’s bony shoulders. “Let us get a seat in the front.”
“Hold!” Beccorban howled and many in the crowd turned to see what was happening. “Take your hands from the boy, priest or I shall cut them from you.”
For a moment there was a standoff, with Droswain clutching Loster’s shoulders as though he were a favourite toy and Beccorban with one hand behind his back, ready to draw the weapon that had brought him infamy. Loster had gone as pale as milk and looked about ready to faint.
“Calm yourself, bearded one.” Callistan stepped forward with Crucio and the tension was cut. Beccorban growled something in a low voice but fell silent as Callistan produced a small speck of gold from his tunic. As he held it up it caught the light and sparkled with a well-known gluttonous gleam. Grundis, his interest restored, shot forward with his palm outstretched and Callistan deposited the tiny droplet of gold into his hand. The little man held it up again to the light.
“It’s a tooth!” he declared.
“Is that a problem?” asked Callistan darkly.
“What? No. No problem, just an observation.” In the presence of his shiny god, Grundis was suddenly much more accommodating.
“The horse too,” Callistan said, making a point of flexing his hands.
Grundis looked up and narrowed his eyes as if trying to find a jest hidden behind Callistan’s words. “I have no need of a horse.”
“And I am not selling him. I am buying his passage.”
Grundis looked at Callistan as though his brains had dribbled out of his nose. “You think we have room for a horse?”
“I think you have room for my horse.”
Beccorban leant in to Riella and whispered, “I told you he loved that damned horse.”
She hit him playfully and he chuckled.
Grundis frowned and looked about him, seemingly lost for words. “He can’t come on our boat.”
“He can and he will.”
“He won’t fit!” protested Grundis and Callistan ran his eyes over the small boat. It was low and flat and large enough for maybe ten people, but there was no way it would fit a horse.
He grunted. “You have more boats?” When Grundis spluttered instead of answering, he continued. “He can go on one of the others.” He turned and looked at Pimmel, who stood behind Droswain, holding his damaged arm and scowling. “Pimmel can take him. Isn’t that right, Pimmel?” Callistan spat out the hard syllables as if they were pith and grinned a dazzling grin.
Grundis tried to argue but his arguments grew increasingly weak. He had been paid passage for ten people several times over. Gold was an imperial metal and it was rarely seen outside of the royal court or the worship houses of large cities. Eventually it was agreed that the tooth would buy them all — including Crucio — a berth on the ship, though no comforts could be promised and they would alight at the port of Farstar on the Daegermundi coast. Farstar was in southern Dalvoss and, though it was not quite far enough away from Veria to guarantee their safety, it would give them a head start over the invaders. From there they might be able to work their way inland or arrange passage even further north, to Pleippo perhaps, or even the island of Sturm. Maybe the tall knights had not yet reached those distant shores.
Crucio was led away down the beach by a surly Pimmel while the rest of them were guided through the crowd with the two scruffy sailors as escorts. Riella could feel the accusing eyes of the people around lancing into her like knives. Shame flushed red on to her cheeks.
“Why do they get special treatment?” she heard a young girl ask her mother.
“Cursed lost nobles, arriving late and skipping ahead,” said another voice.
“Always the bloody same.”
They made it through the gauntlet of the crowd and approached the punt. It was drawn up on the beach alongside the scars of the other trips it had made this morning, deep grooves and gouges that the sea had not yet been able to wash away. Indeed, the grey waters of the Scoldsee seemed sluggish, lapping lazily along the shore as though they had no interest in bearing men today. The outgoing tide had left great slicks of trapped water that lay in pools along the stretch of sand. They looked to Riella like great mirrors, reflecting the bright grey sky above. She looked beyond the ship they were to travel on and saw that farther out the waters were in a violent turmoil, crashing and leaping in explosions of white foam and blue-grey spray. Of course, we are in a bay, she thought. The waters here were sheltered by the headland.
She made to help Mirril into the punt but Callistan beat her to it, taking the small girl gently by the hand and lifting her on to the bench seat. It was the only time she had seen him smile.
The two stocky escorts rammed their shoulders into the wooden prow and, inch by inch, the small boat began to ease back towards the sea. Beccorban passed his bundled cloak and weapon to Riella — again she struggled with the weight of it — and added his shoulder to the task, helping the two others push the punt seawards. Loster was already seated near the back with Droswain, who still whispered words into his ear and paused every now and again, beaming at the young man as though he had told a joke and was expecting a response. Loster’s face was still pale but he smiled weakly at the priest whenever he could muster the energy.
Riella started as Callistan stepped into the boat, too close to her. She caught a whiff of his smell: earth and sweat and smoke. It was a heady mix and she felt herself reeling. She clutched at Mirril’s hand and squeezed hard.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!” the girl protested.
“I’m sorry, Mirril. I’m just nervous.”
“Oh,” said Mirril with understanding. “Don’t worry, Riella. I’ll look after you. I’m used to the sea. Father…” she stopped and her pouty mouth plunged downwards as though to escape the
sudden stream of tears that erupted from her eyes.
Riella hugged the small girl to her chest and looked up to see Callistan staring at her. His eyes were of the deepest green and she thought for a moment that she might fall into them. His face, though scarred and blistered, was handsome — lordly almost. “She misses her father,” he said unnecessarily and Mirril let out a muffled howl into Riella’s bosom. Callistan quickly looked away, embarrassed, and Riella felt like she wanted to laugh, having caught the sudden lack of confidence in his eyes. She turned and stared back towards the land.
The boat rocked as Beccorban clambered over the gunwale, followed quickly by the two other men and Grundis. The two sailors made their way to the oars that bumped limply against the side of the boat and seated themselves more comfortably. With a heave they got the boat into motion, driving it on with powerful chests and arms used to suffering the punishment demanded by the sea.
As they pushed further out into the bay, the waters became choppier and the boat began to rock up and then down again in a lazy, nauseating movement. Suddenly Loster broke out from under Droswain’s arm and flung the top half of himself over the side of the boat. There was an ugly, liquid splash and Riella turned away to save the boy embarrassment. Callistan laughed long and heartily and Droswain and Beccorban both scowled at the tall horseman.
Looking at the steadily shrinking shore, Riella could finally appreciate just how many people there were crowded on to the beach. There were at least a thousand, all those who had made it out of the steadily tightening noose set by the enemy; an enemy that had broken Kressel, and Ruum, and probably Temple itself by now. Nowhere other than elsewhere was truly safe. Riella had never made it to the capital but she had a firm picture of it in her mind: the grand spires and golden domes of the myriad houses of worship inside its high, white walls. Yet now when she pictured it, the white marble walls were tinged with the orange of greedy flame and stained with a crimson hue — not of Verian heraldry but of human blood. She shuddered and her eyes passed up over the sands of the beach, into the tough grass that fought its way to the light through the shifting and choking powder to grow into green fields, dotted with trees and bushes of wiry gorse, stained and discoloured by the wet salt winds.
Higher still, the jagged line of Fend’s distant ramparts stuck upwards like broken teeth. The fortress had never been fully rebuilt, not since the Helhammer had cast it into majestic rubble. Instead, rudimentary shelters had been built in the encirclement of the ruins, still guarded from attack by eight feet or so of ancient stone and a half-ruined watchtower, one side of which was open to the mercies of the winds, as though a giant had taken a bite out of it. Atop the tower, at the tip of its conical roof, was a weather-vane shaped to resemble a bird. As she watched, the wind stirred it to life, until suddenly it took flight.
She thought she was going mad, until she realised that it had not been a weather-vane after all but rather a crow that had found a high perch. She grinned at her own stupidity and followed the path the bird took. It soared over the peaks and troughs of the thermals in the air and wheeled around about itself as it rode the fury of invisible waves. Finally it dipped its wings behind its back and dropped like an arrow down below the crest, only to fly up again in a furious panic of motion, flapping its wings manically.
And this time it was not alone.
A hundred birds of different sizes and shapes and colours suddenly erupted from behind the ridge, as though somebody from a childhood rhyme had cut open a great pie. They flew as a dark mass, up and away from the beach, darting and twisting, instinctively avoiding each other as if they had been schooled in some kind of ritualistic dance. Riella marvelled at the sight but then her eyes were drawn quickly elsewhere, for at the top of the ridge there had suddenly appeared an eerily tall figure in dark grey armour. And his helm had antlers.
“Beccorban, look.” She reached behind her to grab a reassuring handful of the bearskin cloak and trusted that the big man would follow her gaze.
“Gods,” he said softly, and Riella’s stomach dropped through the false floor of her gut.
A hundred tall, armoured figures stepped from behind the ridge, as well as several great lizard-like beasts, each covered in colourful scales that caught the light. They had long necks dotted here and there with feathers, and large elongated heads with beaks as sharp as razors. One let out a horrible caw-shriek that sounded at once like a bird and a banshee, and then the panic began.
The crowd on the beach began to move, slowly at first and then picking up speed as the ones furthest from danger caught the scent of the horror at their backs. In a strange parody of the birds, people began to run as one body, but soon they began to scream, for their instincts were not as honed as the birds, nor were their bodies capable of flight, and they could not avoid what was coming. Many tripped and fell and were trampled. Some dived into the sea, others climbed the powdery dunes to try and make for the illusory safety of far-off Fend. Still more made for the boats, and soon those punts close enough to the beach began to founder and sink as many more than their limit dragged them down to the depths.
“Row harder!” snapped Grundis, and the two sailors at the oars began to saw furiously at their stations. The order was unnecessary. They were farther out into the bay than any other boat and there was no way a swimmer could reach them. As long as they didn’t stop.
“We should go back,” offered Loster weakly. Nobody corrected him. There was no point. They could not help.
A low, mournful horn reached them, and the ranks of armoured knights ran forward, leaping down the dunes with startling agility. Some of the familiar bird-like monsters sprang forward in gigantic leaps to land amongst the fleeing crowds. They lashed with their tails and gnashed with their teeth, and blood began to flow faster than the ever thirsty sand could drink it up. The leader of the few mounted soldiers gathered his paltry force together and attempted a charge, but he was caught by the jaws of one of those terrible winged creatures and shaken until his body parted in the middle. The others fled.
“And thus we become exiles,” said Droswain softly.
Riella looked away. She was no stranger to violence but this was not something she needed to see. She noted that Beccorban had already turned away and sat with his eyes fixed ahead. Loster too sat staring down at the grey water that had seeped through the seams in the wooden planking to slosh around his feet.
Callistan was different. He watched what was happening with a grim expression, yet his eyes flickered as though he felt every blow, and Riella could imagine that he was recording all that he saw in some great mental manuscript so that, when the time came, he could repay it in full.
Yet strangest of all was Droswain, for the exiled priest was watching the events on the beach with the bright eyes of fascination, in which danced the reflection of a thousand murdered souls.
XXIII
The Lussido glided through the cold grey waters of the Scoldsee like a knife. It was a narrow ship, built for speed in battle and not transport, but it had a sizeable hold and the Captain assured them that it was the fastest and most agile ship in Daegermund. Droswain was less kind. He told them that while lussido was officially the Sturmon word for ‘slippery,’ it was also slang for ‘whore.’ The Captain himself was from Sturm so he must have known what it meant, but perhaps he chose to be wilfully ignorant on the subject of his ship’s honour. He was a big, friendly man, dressed in a variety of colours that had once been bright and gay but now were as faded as the grey waters upon which he sailed. He was lovingly called mulco by his crew, which Loster later understood to mean ‘father.’ He never did find out the man’s real name but then he saw so little of him; the captain of a man of war had little time to talk to guests.
Riella and Mirril were shown to a tiny cabin down on the first deck below. It was dark and fetid and smelt of damp but it was private and they could both lie down on the cot provided if they hugged each other close.
Callistan and Beccorban were given a mak
eshift shelter on deck. In truth it was simply a stretch of material pulled out over the decking near the wheelhouse, intended to do nothing more than block out the sun and any other intrusive elements. Loster himself was to share with Droswain and he felt an old panic come over him.
“Not again,” said Barde deep in the hollows of his mind. “We will not let it happen again.”
When Loster told Droswain that he would be staying on deck instead, the priest frowned with obvious disappointment but then bowed his head and nodded. “However you are more comfortable, young Loster, though I do wish to speak to you when I might.” Loster happily agreed to this and went off to find somewhere to sleep. Unfortunately, as he quickly learned, space was limited on a fighting vessel, and after asking around, he was directed to the space by the wheelhouse where Beccorban knelt.
Loster approached him tentatively, trying not to think of all the stories he had heard about the Helhammer. If Selene had been right and this man was truly the beast of legend, then he had seen the death of whole cities. Indeed, he had been responsible for them. Did that make her actions right?
“Don’t be a fool,” came Barde’s hissed tone. “The man saved you. The least you owe him is your thanks, even if he used to eat babes for breakfast. Go on, say something to him. It’s better to sleep here than near the priest. Who knows what comforts a man of the gods would expect from a young boy?”
“Shut up!” Loster snapped out loud, blushing as Beccorban turned to regard him quizzically. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you yet,” he recovered quickly, averting his eyes from that wintery gaze. Beccorban smiled then gestured for Loster to help him. He was scrubbing the decking with a large white stone, scouring it of any filth it had gathered. Loster knelt and picked up one of the stones. He watched as Beccorban pinched some sand from a pot at his feet and sprinkled it on the deck. Loster joined him and soon his hands began to feel as raw as the bright wood beneath.
